


A Sky Full of Stars

by rubberbird



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, M/M, Model!Anakin, On Hiatus, Photographer!Obi-Wan, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-19 09:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5962653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubberbird/pseuds/rubberbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>True love never did run smooth. (Currently on hiatus).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry to say that this fic is currently on hiatus. I've hit a bit of a wall with it and my writing tends to be in infrequent bursts of highly unreliable creativity, so I don't want to produce anything haphazard or sloppy just for the sake of finishing it. I really hope one day I can finish it and finish it well.

"Remind me why I agreed to this again?"

Obi-Wan's personal assistant handed him a cup of coffee and checked her watch for what could have been the hundredth time in thirty minutes.

He took a brief swig. It was bad. Of course the coffee was bad. The coffee was bad. His client was forty minutes late. One of the stylists had knocked over a light and smashed it into roughly five hundred pieces. He'd spent all night wrestling with his website and when morning had shown its unwelcome face it had still been a mess of broken links and broken code.

His PA shrugged at him. "Because you're desperate for relevancy?"

Somewhere in her mid-twenties, his PA was pale and slim with glasses that obscured almost half of her face. Obi-Wan had never seen her wear something that wasn't black, and she pulled off dark plum lipstick better than most women. Other than that, she always answered her phone when he needed her and had the multitasking skills of an octopus on Ritalin.

Obi-Wan grunted. "I'm a sucker for punishment."

He touched the pocket his cigarettes would have been in if he hadn't thrown them out the week before. Now he was on the gum. Healthier and more irritable than he'd been in ten years.

"Don’t look now," his PA mumbled, nodding behind him.

Obi-Wan turned and found the girl from Prestige Models he'd spoken to the day before making a beeline for him. She looked suitably distressed and he felt himself softening, despite his prior commitment to displaying his extreme displeasure at being stood up for almost an hour through expert passive-aggression.

"I'm so sorry," she burst out as she reached him. "He— The traffic was awful. He's in hair and makeup now."

Obi-Wan could imagine she'd probably had a worse morning than him, trying to wrangle her high-profile charge to their appointment, all the while knowing that any disasters would be pinned firmly on her. "It's no trouble. We practically just arrived."

His PA could barely conceal her snort and earned herself a sharp look from the agency girl. Her eyes turned quickly back to Obi-Wan. "He's thrilled to be working with you, Mr. Kenobi. I'm a fan of your work myself."

"You're too kind," Obi-Wan said, smiling.

He wondered if she was told to say that. His fashion work had been years ago now and fashion had a terminally short memory. It was one of the things he did not miss about the industry. One of the things.

"I'll… ah…" She glanced anxiously over her shoulder. "I'll just go and check on him." She gave a small bow of her head and hurried away, looking like a harried animal.

"You would have been well within your rights to tell these people to fuck off," his PA said as soon as she was gone. She looked up from her phone with raised eyebrows. "You don't need to deal with this shit now. Your work's been in the Tate for God's sake."

Obi-Wan smiled. He could always rely on her to be righteously indignant on his behalf. Whether he was being unfavourably compared to Annie Lebovitz, or having his work wholesale panned by some acid-tongued critic, she was always there to let him know that they were philistines who wouldn't know art if "it slapped them across the face with its great, flaccid cock". Her words, not his. While not especially personable, his PA did occasionally have an interesting way with words.

"And miss my chance to work with  _the_ Anakin Skywalker?" Obi-Wan remarked.

His PA tutted in disgust. "You’d think his piss could cure cancer the way they're crawling all over him. It's Cara Delevingne all over again." She scoffed. " _Models_."

Obi-Wan let the bitterness in her tone wash over him. There would have been a time when he'd been as acrid about the situation as she was, but he'd mellowed with age. He knew she didn't approve of his decision to move back into commercial photography. Especially not fashion. She'd been completely up-front about that. To be perfectly honest he was beginning to wonder whether it was wise himself. He had forgotten about the bad coffee and the malfunctioning equipment and the cancelled appointments and the clients who turned up an hour late, if at all.

And he had forgotten about the potency of the cult of beauty. And how fruitful it had always been to those who worshipped it. He had enough experience with the fashion industry to know that they had decided they had found a golden calf in Anakin Skywalker. Beautiful, tragic and now at the tender, but sexually awakened age of nineteen, he was everything the cult needed in an idol. In fashion you were everything or you were nothing.

From what he had heard, Anakin had once been a rather solemn-faced child tagging along after his late and troubled supermodel mother, who had pushed her son into the space in the fashion world she had vacated and promptly died of a heroin overdose. Obi-Wan supposed the grooming process had begun in earnest after that, as the industry hurried to finish what his mother had started. As soon as it became apparent that her son had inherited his mother's beautiful face and lean, long figure. He supposed they ignored the possibility of his also inheriting her manic depression and love affair with smack.

He touched his pocket absently again. Tutting impatiently at himself, he finally relented and pulled out a stick of the hated gum, putting it unenthusiastically on his tongue and letting the mint coating burn his tastebuds for a few seconds. If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine it was a menthol cigarette.

"I can't believe you ever worked with these people."

Obi-Wan opened his eyes and followed his PA's distasteful gaze to where the agency girl was in urgent conversation with two makeup artists. Obi-Wan overheard one of them say: "he doesn't want to wear concealer over it." The agency girl ran a hand through her hair exasperatedly.

"All of this over one spoiled brat."

Privately, Obi-Wan agreed. He would never have dreamt of acting like this during his brief stint as a model. Though admittedly he was so desperate to be accepted into the inner circle of high fashion, he would have done just about anything to please them. And in the end even all of his slavish obedience hadn't been enough.

"You were lucky you got out when you did—"

"That's enough," Obi-Wan said, unable to keep the bite from his voice. "We're here to do a job."

His PA fell silent, clearly surprised by his tone. Obi-Wan sighed inwardly. Perhaps being back in that atmosphere was getting to him.

"Mr. Kenobi?" the agency girl appeared again, cheeks slightly flushed, but looking decidedly relieved. He could guess why. She was here to pass off her charge onto him. Now the little golden calf was his problem. "We're ready."

Obi-Wan looked past her and felt a sensation like he had missed a step going down stairs. He choked soundlessly on his own tongue and almost spluttered when he replied: "A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Skywalker."

Later, when he looked back on that day, Obi-Wan would realise that from that moment onwards his life had not been one, continuous string. An endless track like the Orient Express. There was before Anakin and there was after Anakin. And it became more difficult year by year to remember the before. It was like trying to picture the world before mountains had formed. It seemed unreal.

"Please, call me Anakin." His voice was a drawl and a smirk. Not an unpleasant smirk, and not an unpleasant drawl. It was honey ebbing off a spoon and a drop of blood falling into water. "And you're Obi-Wan?"

Obi-Wan's brain somehow creaked into action, working overtime for the rest of his body, which seemed to have immobilized like a deer in the headlights. "Yes, it's a pleasure to meet you." He swallowed thickly. "I already said that."

The smirk that seemed to sit permanently in the corners of Anakin's mouth flickered very quickly into focus and then was almost immediately gone. The agency girl cleared her throat. Neither of them looked at her.

"I'll leave you to it then," she said awkwardly.

Obi-Wan forced himself out of the trance he seemed to have fallen into and looked at her with a smile. "Thanks. We'll get to it." He turned to Anakin. "Stand over there, if you don't mind."

Anakin smiled crookedly at him and obeyed, taking his place in front of the backdrop. Obi-Wan looked at him and then held his camera up to look at him through the lens. Through it, his eyes traced the scar over his right eye. It was a neat, rosy seam over the arch of his eyebrow.

The sharp line of it, along with his intense, almost insistently penetrating eyes, altered the would-be boyishness of his face and collar-length shag of dirty blond hair into something… else. He had an almost obscene amount of natural beauty. Some of it sharp, some of it soft. If that face wasn't art, then Obi-Wan didn't know what was. He could imagine the look on his PA's face if he had uttered _that_ bit of blasphemy aloud.

Obi-Wan licked his lips, lowering the camera. Anakin's eyes were still on him, not glancing away, not shy, not questioning. He could tell that those eyes could be a caress or a diamond blade, and he was capable of using both. There was a slight awkwardness and stiffness about his stance, though only perceivable by someone looking closely. He was hiding whatever nervousness he might be feeling well. The look he was giving him was almost challenging.

And his mouth was quite fascinating.

Obi-Wan swallowed again, his face feeling hot as he stared over the top of his camera.

Maybe it was the effects of nicotine withdrawal and the fact he'd gotten two hours sleep the night before, but he felt almost dizzy when he looked at him. Something felt like it was coiling in his stomach, not just in, but around it, contracting it. Contracting his chest. He wondered if he was going to have a heart attack before the shoot was over.

He forced a smile onto his face. "Okay, head up a little bit for me, Anakin."

****

The first drag was always the best. And Obi-Wan was gagging for that first drag that evening. Sheltering on the studio steps to avoid the steady fall of rain that had started almost the minute he'd walked outside, he clasped the cigarette between his hands like it was a starving man's first meal and breathed deep.

He'd scavenged three off one of the hair stylists. He really didn't want to buy his own. He wasn't giving up on giving up; he just needed it tonight. To shake off the strange sensations he'd been battling with all day, to take the edge off the tension and the doubts that had begun as a whisper and were a full-blown rage by the time he'd finished shooting Anakin.

Shooting Anakin. What an ordeal. An hour behind schedule already, the shoot had been further stymied by Anakin's obvious inexperience. He had needed a lot of instruction, and he was far from a natural. In fact, his movements bordered on wooden. His expressions were often severe, almost brooding.

But there was a dark loveliness to his features that had captured Obi-Wan's imagination completely. The combination of his raw prettiness and the hard edge leant to him by the scar and his uncompromising eyes was intoxicating. He wondered if everyone had experienced what he had when first meeting Anakin. His PA had certainly not changed her opinion that he was a dandified fuckboy when it was all over and he'd spoken to her briefly before she had to flit off to "an industry thing".

Obi-Wan had thought that fashion would never be able to feed that gnawing ache for artistry like it once had, but here he was barely able to sate himself. Looking. Needing to look. Looking like if he stopped, he wouldn't be able to breathe. It had become more and more difficult to put the camera down, every time Anakin had to change outfits, have his hair and makeup fussed with, have the wardrobe people straighten his clothes and adjust them on his slim figure. And, yes, Obi-Wan had had ample time to linger on every edge, curve, line of that body—

"Got another one I could have?"

Obi-Wan jerked around in surprise. He almost choked on his cigarette when he found himself face to face with the eyes he had been feverishly committing to memory as he stood there. Anakin gave him that now familiar, self-assured quirk of his lips and nodded to Obi-Wan's hand.

Obi-Wan stared at him and then something clicked in his suddenly exceptionally sluggish mind. "Oh! Right. I… do. Just a—" He rummaged in his pocket for a second one. He held it out to him.

Anakin took it with a softer, brighter smile and pressed it between his lips. Obi-Wan watched it. "Thanks," he said through it. "I've been dying for one all day. I'm supposed to be quitting." He lit it with a silver lighter from his jeans pocket. "My health and everything." He took a drag and looked up, smile still on his face. "But I figure cigarettes keep you thin, don't they?"

Without the makeup on, his skin was tanner, Obi-Wan noted. There were some dark shadows under his eyes that had been artfully hidden by the makeup artists, and the scar over his eye looked slightly more severe. And he had clearly run his hands through his hair, because it was distinctly more tousled now.

"I really don't think you need to worry about that," Obi-Wan said, his own cigarette hanging forgotten by his side.

The teasing edge returned to Anakin's smile. "Been looking, have you?"

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes with a good-natured scoff. "I had to watch you change your clothes at least ten times today, Mr. Skywalker."

Anakin stepped around to look at him, blue eyes suddenly earnest. "I told you to call me Anakin. I don't want everyone to start being all formal with me, because…" He faltered, seeming embarrassed. "Well, you know."

"Because you're going to be the next             It Boy?" Obi-Wan supplied drily.

Anakin shrugged, taking another drag of the cigarette. Obi-Wan watched the smoke curl almost sensually up from his lips in a slow steam. "I've heard you’re an amazing photographer." Obi-Wan couldn't tell if he was changing the subject or elaborating. "I looked at some of your stuff before I came." He looked at him. "You make art."

Obi-Wan was surprised and a little taken aback by his sincere tone. And perhaps he was a little bit flattered. Just a little bit. Even as he admitted it to himself, he wanted to scoff at himself. Here he was, a man of thirty, well-removed from (most of) the passions and desperations of youth, feeling all warm inside because a pretty, young thing said he liked his work. Pathetic.

"Why would you want to come back to shooting models?" Anakin's eyes were unrelenting. He seemed to always be searching, penetrating. "It seems like an odd thing to do."

Obi-Wan gave a half-shrug and flicked his cigarette butt away where it landed in a puddle at the base of the stairs. "Not really. Art and fashion both have their pretensions and delusions of grandeur, but if you can stomach one, you can generally stomach the other. They're not so different." He paused. "Fashion is crueller."

Anakin gave a surprised laugh. "Stomach? I thought people went into creative stuff because they loved it, couldn't live without it. That sort of thing."

Obi-Wan's heart gave a twinge. He had to give himself a mental shake again. What was wrong with him today? He forced a laugh. "That's a very romantic idea."

Anakin's cheeks flushed just slightly red. He looked away. "Sorry. I don't mean to be bothering you with all this bullshit." He finished his cigarette too and dropped it onto the steps, grinding it under the heel of his shoe.

"I don't mind, though I would have thought you'd be off to some rooftop party rather than hanging around in this pissing rain," Obi-Wan said facetiously, though he was genuinely curious as to why the young man hadn't immediately sped off in his BMW to meet his other almost-famous model friends.

Anakin looked him, that same serious, solemn look coming over his eyes that again made Obi-Wan's breath catch in his throat. "I'm sorry. I'm bothering you. You probably just want to go home. And after I kept you waiting for so long—"

"Don't be ridiculous," Obi-Wan said quickly. Too quickly. "It was no trouble. I've had models turn up hung-over, vomiting everywhere, with tattoos they decided to get while blind pissed, with hair that needed industrial-sized hedge trimmers to get the knots out of. It comes with the territory of working with high-maintenance—"

He broke off, realising that his ramble might have gotten out of control. Anakin didn't seem to be offended though. He looked away and back at Obi-Wan, cocking his head slightly in a way that Obi-Wan suddenly wished he could photograph, with the setting sun behind him framing him almost religiously.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" Anakin almost blurted out.

Obi-Wan stared at him. His mind had gone helpfully blank. "Well, I…"  _need to get home, have lots of important things to do, am late for a doctor's appointment, have to fix my website because I managed to break all forty links on it last night._  "Of course." He smiled at him. "That'd be lovely."

Why was he even trying to think of an excuse anyway? As though what Anakin had suggested was something illicit or sordid? It was just a coffee. He ignored the nagging voice in his mind that told him it was a bad idea to get involved with models outside of work. _It's just a coffee_ , he repeated firmly to the voice. _It's harmless._

Obi-Wan thought Anakin's smile was a bit relieved. "Great. I know this place just around the corner."


	2. Chapter 2

Obi-Wan opened the door to his apartment and said a silent prayer that he hadn't left it in the state he thought he had. The light revealed a spread of discarded photographs on the sofa, a coffee table choked with magazines and camera parts, and a small collection of empty mugs on the side table.

"Sorry," he muttered, hurrying to gather up the photographs from the sofa. "Had to run out of the house like a madman this morning."

Anakin looked around with a laugh. "It's fine. Way cleaner than my place usually is." His eyes fell on the photos in Obi-Wan's hands. "What are those? Can I see?"

Obi-Wan gave a start. "Um… Sure." He held them out to him. "They're just some snapshots I took. Nothing special." He was almost annoyed at how sheepish he felt as he handed them over. Like he was a first-year art student.

Anakin gave him an almost rakish grin and began to flip through them. Obi-Wan couldn't help watching him while he was off-guard. His eyes were much softer when he wasn't so conscious of being watched.

"These are lovely." Anakin didn't sound like he was just flattering him, unless he was particularly skilled at sounding so artlessly sincere. "The photos of me might turn out alright after all, hey?" He glanced up at him, blue eyes glinting.

Obi-Wan took the photos back. "Don’t speak too soon. The retouchers haven't gotten their hands on them yet."

Anakin blinked. "Retouching? Like Photoshop?"

Obi-Wan tilted his head to the side, feeling a pang of sympathy for him. He was so inexperienced. "It varies from model to model and magazine to magazine." He continued almost without thinking: "but they'd be crazy to overdo it on you."

Anakin smiled teasingly at him. "I'm that pretty, am I?"

Obi-Wan immediately regretted the comment and felt his cheeks heating up. Clearly, he had been cloistered away for far too long if he couldn't even handle a nineteen-year-old's teasing without flushing like a scolded schoolboy. He cleared his throat and looked away from Anakin's knowing eyes.

"I'll… ah, get the drinks. Make yourself comfortable." He gestured awkwardly to the sofa and retreated to the kitchen, cringing at himself as he went.

He exasperatedly palmed his temples as he cast a look through his fridge. He was _flirting_. Flirting with a man eleven years his junior. It had been a bad idea to ask Anakin home for a drink. A stupid idea. They should have parted ways at the café and gone back to their opposite sides of the camera. He didn't know what had possessed him.

But two coffees and an increasingly thawed conversation later, he'd been gripped by some mad surge of confidence and offered Anakin a nightcap before he went back to his hotel. He had accepted immediately, almost eagerly, which did no small favours for Obi-Wan's ego. But now the initial thrill was ebbing, and he was beginning to feel a nagging sense of wrongdoing.

He couldn't shake it, though nothing about Anakin Skywalker felt like it could ever be  _wrong_. As they'd talked, Obi-Wan had looked. Something, he was beginning to realise, he was in danger of becoming addicted to. He drank in the young man like a parched man tasting his first water in days. It felt almost decadent and self-indulgent. And not entirely healthy. When he was close to him, it felt like fingers were sinking through his skull and delving into his mind, pressing down on the parts of him that were most intimate and most sensitive.

That couldn't be normal.

Underneath his boyish teasing and smirking, Anakin was quietly intense, but so guileless and perhaps even naïve. He seemed earnest in everything he said, unfettered by years in an industry that could devour innocence and purity like a dark god taking a sacrifice. Despite the terrible scars his childhood must have left… His mother's complete cannibalisation by the industry that now lusted so openly for him, her meaningless and sudden demise, the rapidity with which she had faded from fashion's fickle consciousness. Obi-Wan had read somewhere that Anakin had been carefully shuttered away by nannies and other family members by the time his mother had truly fallen into the grip of heroin, but it still lent a sharp edge of tragedy to what would otherwise have been a textbook rise to greatness.

Back in the present and out of his slightly feverish thoughts, he poured both of them a bourbon and took it in to Anakin. He was perusing Obi-Wan's record collection, carefully scanning each label before moving on to the next one, a small, focused frown on his perfect features, long fingers gliding along the edge of the sleeves.

"You said you liked bourbon, right?" Obi-Wan said, feeling foolish as he hovered behind him.

Anakin turned around and took the drink from him, with a smile that made Obi-Wan's insides squirm. "Thanks. I like it fine." He cocked his head, the thoughtful frown returning. "You were a model, right?"

Obi-Wan sighed inwardly. Well, it was inevitable. There was almost no one in the fashion world who didn't know about that fruitless and slightly humiliating period of his life. The magazines and blogs loved comparing his talent behind the camera to his doomed and mediocre attempts in front of it. Handsome enough, they said. But pedestrian. Too boy-next-door. Too short. Too soft in his features. The words had once stung, but his success as a photographer had been something of a balm for his bruised ego, though far from a perfect one. It had once felt like a petty runners-up prize for a long time. But he'd grown up a lot since that time. He hoped.

"I… was," he said carefully, keeping check of his tone. He certainly did not want to sound bitter or wistful or even too dismissive. "A long time ago."

They sat on the sofa. Obi-Wan was hyperaware of Anakin's body sprawled beside him, long limbs stretched out, head back against the cushions. He looked over at Obi-Wan with an unreadable smile and took a sip of his drink. It left a wet patch on the arch of his cupid's bow. Before he could stop himself, so instantaneously it was almost instinctual, Obi-Wan saw himself leaning over and licking that blot of bourbon on Anakin's lips. One moment of letting his guard down and the image had forced itself into his mind like a gate-crasher. He gave himself a violent mental shake.

"Not that long ago," Anakin said, watching him over the top of the glass.

Obi-Wan sighed. "Over ten years ago. I barely remember most of it." He hoped the lie would close the conversation. But Anakin proved to be persistent.

"Can I see a picture of you?" he asked, without missing a beat.

He reminded Obi-Wan of a child in some ways. Unpretentious, unconcerned with decorum, asking questions without thinking, just because he was curious and wanted to know. Obi-Wan didn't find it an unpleasant quality. Far from it, he thought wryly to himself.

"Well…" He hesitated. He did have some photos from those days in a drawer in his office. He had never been ready to just throw them away, as much as they brought back bad memories. "Alright," he said finally. He convinced himself it was because he thought it was harmless and not because he found it very difficult to say no to Anakin.

He set down his drink and went into the darkened office, switching on the light. Files and papers littered the desk and camera equipment was crammed onto almost every surface. Some of his photographs were on the walls. None from his fashion days.

He knelt down in front of the desk drawers and went through the contents. There was about a decade's worth of photos in it, but a brisk bit of digging unearthed what he was looking for. There were only two that he could find, but it would have to satisfy him. He cringed as he straightened up with the photos in hand. _Satisfy Anakin_.

Going back into the living room, he found Anakin still draped across one half of the sofa, glass now empty in his hand. Obi-Wan sat back down beside him, still extremely aware of how much (or how little, as it were) space was between them. He handed the pictures to Anakin.

Anakin put his empty glass down on the coffee table and sat back, holding the pictures up to his face. Obi-Wan leant back and took a sip of his drink, watching his face. For a moment it was blank as he looked closely at the first picture and then slowly looked at the second. Then he looked up at him with that increasingly familiar half-smile.

"You look so young," he said. His eyes widened slightly. "I mean— Not that you aren't still—"

Obi-Wan smirked. "That's sweet of you, Anakin, but I'm aware that by fashion's standards I'm positively geriatric."

Anakin laughed and then cleared his throat awkwardly. "You were gorgeous though." His eyes went back to the pictures. He touched a finger to one. "You still are," he added in a low voice. So low Obi-Wan almost didn't hear it.

He was wondering how to respond, if he should respond, or just pretend not to have heard when Anakin looked up, delivering him from the decision.

"Why did you quit?" He held out the photos to him.

Obi-Wan took them and put them on the coffee table, intending to bury them back in their drawer as soon as he left. He wondered if Anakin was asking the question just to humour him. He found it difficult to believe he truly didn't know.

"You haven't heard the gossip?" Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow.

Anakin shook his head. He wasn’t difficult to read, and Obi-Wan detected no deception in his expression, so he decided to accept it on face value.

He sighed. "High fashion is a blood sport. If you haven’t got the right look you're relegated to commercial modelling in a heartbeat. And, at the time, that was a slight to my dignity." He smiled drily at him. "Obviously, I've grown out of that now."

"So you went into photography?" Anakin said.

"Not immediately. I licked my wounds for a bit." His eyes trailed up the scar on Anakin's cheek. "I'm better on the other side of the camera. I wasn't enough of a wild child to really be a top model anyway."

He hoped the flippant tone was convincing. He didn't want to sound self-pitying. Especially not in front of Anakin. He was mostly convinced that his feelings about his failed career were now resolved, but there was a healed wound there that he didn't really want to pick at. He drained the rest of his drink.

Anakin seemed to lose interest in the pictures and sunk back into the sofa cushions, turning his head to look at him. Obi-Wan was caught off-guard by the sudden eye-contact and almost flinched.

"You have a nice apartment," Anakin said. Obi-Wan hadn't met someone who could say something so innocuous with such intent behind their eyes.

Obi-Wan wetted his lips. "I… Thank you." He had to look away, pretending to drain the dregs from his glass.

He could feel Anakin was still watching him. Could almost feel the heat radiating off of him. The hairs on his arms were standing on end and his heart was beating a tribal rhythm under his shirt.

A sudden movement in his peripheral vision made him jerk his head around. Anakin grinned, holding up his empty glass. "Relax. Just putting this down."

Obi-Wan's laugh sounded distinctly forced in his own ears. "Sorry, I—"

"So I can do this," Anakin murmured, leaning towards him. His hands touched his jaw and Obi-Wan could feel the soft callouses on his fingertips. Then lips were pressing insistently against his and he almost dropped his glass.

Anakin's fingertips slid through the bristles of his stubble and he deepened the kiss, taking Obi-Wan's stunned stillness as an invitation to try and push inside of his mouth. The sensation of Anakin's tongue, tangy with bourbon and cold from the ice, sent a jolt of shock through him and he abruptly yanked backwards.

"What are you doing?" He had meant for it to sound firm, but it came out more as a strangled choke. There was now a flushed stripe now down the centre of Anakin's lips.

"You're going to drop your glass," he said, voice bordering on husky. Obi-Wan felt a subtle shiver run through him.

"No, wait.  _What_  are you doing?" he said, a little more incredulity creeping into his voice.

Anakin's eyes, which had been fixed on his mouth, suddenly met his and every ounce of oxygen in his body almost left him. "I'm so attracted to you, Obi-Wan. I was from the minute I saw you." His voice was breathy; he was leaning closer to him, a small frown creasing his forehead. "I could feel your eyes on me all day. God, it turned me on." An aborted, little groan almost left his mouth.

Obi-Wan, in spite of himself, put the glass down. He felt like he had slipped into some mad fever dream. A fever dream he didn't necessarily want to wake from. Anakin watched him place the glass down on the coffee table with something like triumph in his eyes. He immediately lurched towards him, mashing his mouth against his again in a way that was more than slightly painful. Obi-Wan had been about to talk him down from his feverish confession, but the sensation of Anakin's hands snaking around his body awoke something in him animalistic and fierce.

He kissed him back with an unpractised hunger that betrayed both his long period of abstinence and his desperation. The taste of bourbon in Anakin's mouth was mingled with a trace of tobacco. It was rich and moreish. He put a hand to the back of Anakin's hair. He could feel himself hardening, could feel his cock beginning to push against his jeans. In a way, it was humiliating: getting hard after a few fumbling kisses. In another way, it was to be expected. He had spent the entirety of the afternoon wrestling with what he now realised was an intense and consuming desire for Anakin.

Anakin's fingers found the buttons on his shirt and began to tug them open. The brush of his fingers against the bare skin of Obi-Wan's chest broke the spell that seemed to have taken control of him. He broke away, panting softly. Anakin was panting too, lips apart and cheeks flushed. His eyes were almost fiercely bright.

"We can't… This is…" Obi-Wan said, out-of-breath, trying to put some space between them, trying to clear his head of Anakin's scent, Anakin's taste, Anakin's presence. It was almost hard to breathe when he was so close to him.

Anakin tried to close the space between them again, eyes almost predatory. "Don't you feel it?" Anakin was almost on top of him again. "You do. I know you do."

He was kissing him again. This time, Obi-Wan gave in. He had reached the extent of his will-power and Anakin was incredibly persuasive. Anakin shoved him against the arm of the sofa, half on top of him, kissing him with an almost vicious insistence. His fingers returned to the buttons on his shirt, ripping them open, not stopping when one of them was completely ripped off. Obi-Wan didn't care enough to stop. He let Anakin tear his shirt off, flinging it beside them and did the same to Anakin's.

He had to pause to catch his breath. Anakin sat back, breathing hard, chest and stomach heaving gently. Obi-Wan's eyes traced down the lines of his body, the well-toned muscles, all bathed in that toasted brown glow. He felt a bloom of self-consciousness over his own older body. But when he ventured a glance at Anakin's face, his eyes were roaming over Obi-Wan's torso with obvious appreciation. That was almost more embarrassing. He felt a sudden want to cover up.

Before he could dwell on the thought, Anakin had closed the space between them again. The discomfiture dissipated immediately. Lips were back against lips; the taste of Anakin was back on his tongue. Anakin gripped his jaw, kiss becoming almost a claiming, almost a branding of his mouth by Anakin's. The thought sent the blood rushing to his crotch and his cock gave a firm throb between his thighs. Anakin sat back an inch with a flushed grin, hair dishevelled and eyes in a haze of relaxed lust.

The next thing to go was the trousers. First Anakin's. The young model had no shame in pulling them off in front of Obi-Wan, letting them slide down his long, tanned legs. He had, and Obi-Wan didn't exaggerate, an entirely perfect body. The ridges of his hips dipped into a V that disappeared beneath the band of his underwear. Obi-Wan traced the trail of wiry blond hair beneath his navel.

Anakin kicked his shoes off, the picture of self-assured youth standing there, all six bronzed feet of him, dressed in nothing but his underwear and that knowing, little smirk that was quickly becoming his constant companion. He cocked his head in a way that suggested it was Obi-Wan's turn to do the same. Obi-Wan sighed and decided it was best to do it quickly. Like a Band-Aid.

He hurriedly disrobed, kicking his trousers and shoes next to Anakin's. He took half a second to admire the sight of their clothes tangled together on the rug, his photographer's eyes always hyperaware to the picturesque. Before he could feel exposed, Anakin's body was against his, strong hands were running over his body, thighs were encasing him. He felt the bulk of Anakin's prick press against his and let out a gasp.

"You're gorgeous," Anakin mumbled into his ear.

Obi-Wan's first instinct was to disagree, but he bit his tongue. Anakin slid off the sofa and down onto his knees, thumbing at the band of Obi-Wan's underwear. He shot him a dark look under his eyelashes and hooked his fingers into them. Obi-Wan's throat hitched and he raised his hips almost without thinking.

The smack of cold air against his straining prick was a momentary shock and then something warm, like spreading honey engulfed him and he had to bite down on his knuckle to stop an undignified choke leaving his mouth. His fingers tangled into Anakin's dirty blond bob and he seemed to like that. He gave a soft moan around Obi-Wan's shaft. Obi-Wan gave an almost experimental tug and was rewarded with a deep growl that reverberated into a shiver of pleasure up through his most intimate places, through his thighs and into his stomach. He really did choke at that and his hips gave a small buck of their own accord.

Anakin released him with an obscene, wet pop and climbed back up onto his hips. Obi-Wan was aching. He was loath to beg, but the loss of pressure on his cock was almost devastating. Anakin seemed to know it too. Still in his underwear, he pressed himself against the head of Obi-Wan's cock. Obi-Wan felt the dip where his entrance was between his thighs and between his legs and restrained a moan. Anakin was far less controlled and let out an almost whining sound of need, rubbing himself with almost breathtaking wantonness against him.

Obi-Wan took his hips, desperately wanting to ride him, wanting to buck up against him. Anakin's underwear was sporting a dark patch where he was clearly leaking on himself as he strained against the material. Obi-Wan couldn't control himself any longer. He yanked Anakin's underwear down, causing the man to emit a small sound between a gasp and a groan. His prick sprung free, fiercely red and seeping pre-come. Anakin hissed softly as Obi-Wan ran his fingertips gently through it, rubbing it between his fingers.

He trailed his fingers along Anakin's gently shaking thigh, leaving a snail trail of pre-come underneath. Anakin spread his legs wider, allowing him to press against the tight ring of his entrance. He smeared the slick across it and Anakin moaned, long and desperate, rubbing himself against Obi-Wan's fingers in a way that was almost dizzyingly erotic.

Obi-Wan retracted his figures, swearing softly under his breath. "Wait a minute. I've got something."

He earned himself a displeased groan from Anakin who nonetheless let himself be gently pushed off of his lap. He sat back against the sofa, watching him with a tense, almost suffocating burn of lust that made Obi-Wan's knees feel physically weak. He forced himself to look away and almost ran to the bathroom.

His hands were clumsy as he rifled through the cabinet, knocking over bottles of aftershave and disinfectant in search of what he needed. When his fingers closed over it, he slammed the cabinet door shut and unsteadily made his way back to the living room, suddenly keenly aware of the sensation of his feet on the wooden floorboards and the prickle of the night air against his bare body. In a way, he was intensely grounded in the moment, and in another he felt like he was drunk.

Anakin turned his head lazily to look at him as he got back to the sofa. Eyes glinting with soft mirth, he spread his legs with a slow relish that was a palpable, and slightly obscene, invitation. Obi-Wan took the cue and leant in front of him. He lifted Anakin's hips and he let himself be moved and stretched, melded to Obi-Wan's needs. Obi-Wan soaked his fingers and stretched him, with careful, though admittedly unpractised, care. Anakin began to make love to his fingers, rocking down on them, biting his lip, searching for pressure and completion, but finding neither. He let out a whine, looking at Obi-Wan and seeming, for almost the first time, as shaken up as Obi-Wan felt.

He turned his head and touched one of his nipples with his fingertips. "Fuck me," he mumbled, eyes almost closed.

Obi-Wan swallowed thickly. He removed his fingers, dropping the lube and clambering up onto the sofa. Anakin straddled him, thighs damp from sweat and lube, and perhaps his own pre-come. He stretched himself open for Obi-Wan and slowly sheathed himself on Obi-Wan's cock, taking him in inch by inch in an aching, torturous swallow. They both let out a sound. Obi-Wan's was a tense grunt, Anakin's a harsh breath in.

Obi-Wan touched his thighs, looked up into his eyes. Anakin's expression floored him. He looked almost anguished. His hands were clutching the back of the sofa, his arms either side of Obi-Wan. The scent of sex, which was so easy to forget after so long, was filling his nostrils. The smell of Anakin's body, his deodorant, his cologne, his sweat, the smell of his sex and his slick. It sent a throb through Obi-Wan's prick.

When Anakin began to ride him, it was almost too much too quickly for him. He thought with a terrified thrill that he was going to come right there and then, but the moment passed quickly. His body seemed to remember the pattern, even if his mind had forgotten it. Anakin's eyes flickered and a soft sound left his lips every time he took him into him. Obi-Wan rocked up to meet him, their bodies quickly finding a rhythmic, if messy accord.

The muscles of Anakin's body flexed and tautened as he moved. His mouth was open, his teeth occasionally biting down on his bottom lip as he rocked. His eyes were sometimes closed, but more often boring into Obi-Wan's, almost demanding he look at him, and look right at him as they made lo— fucked. As they fucked.

Obi-Wan felt the familiar sensation of his approaching orgasm. The sensation of being pressed inside of Anakin was bringing him to the edge and the younger man seemed relentless in seeking to push him off it. Obi-Wan's fingers slipped wetly on Anakin's thighs. Anakin's cries were becoming harsher and each sound was sending a bolt directly to the core of Obi-Wan's arousal. He wrapped a hand unsteadily around Anakin's sex between them, rubbing it in clumsy, uneven spasms.

His orgasm came almost without him realising it was about to take hold. He cried out more loudly than he had intended. "Anakin!" The name had left his lips before he could stop himself. He released inside of him, filling him sloppily with his seed.

Anakin moaned low, and Obi-Wan felt a soft splatter against his stomach. Anakin moaned again, riding out his orgasm with a look of softening anguish. His teeth were sunk into his bottom lip.

Obi-Wan collapsed back against the sofa, chest surging up and down, breaths harsh. Anakin collapsed against him, face pressed into his shoulder, arms limp beside him. The sticky wetness was sandwiched between them. Anakin let out a sound like a whimper into him.

Obi-Wan stared at the ceiling, the euphoria of his release giving in to a soft, almost melancholy sort of calm. He remembered that feeling. Anakin stirred on top of him, limbs slowly coming back to life. He looked bleary and flushed, but managed to give him a tired grin.

He slowly got off of him, unsheathing himself from Obi-Wan and lay beside him. He closed his eyes, stretching out his legs. Obi-Wan watched him, feeling a curious and not easily identifiable clash of emotions in his chest. Part of him mourned that he had allowed himself to be seduced so easily. There was something about Anakin that filled him with a great… something. It was difficult to name. But he wanted… He wanted. He didn't know what he wanted. But Christ, he wanted.

When Anakin straightened up, the lazy, slightly foolish grin had disappeared from his face. In fact, he suddenly looked almost grim. Something twinged uneasily inside of Obi-Wan. He watched wordlessly as the young man got up, collecting up his clothes in a silent sort of ritual.

When he was dressed, he turned to look at him and Obi-Wan thought he saw a shard of regret glint briefly in his eyes. He silently berated himself. He knew what was coming now.

"I'll give you a call about the pictures," he said, tone offensively professional. "Thanks for today."

He turned to leave. Obi-Wan felt a wave of disbelief go through him. "Is that it then?"

Anakin looked at him. "It was fun. Maybe we'll do it again sometime."

Obi-Wan's disbelief turned to cold anger inside of him. "No. I don't think so. Goodbye, Anakin."

He was convinced he saw a flash of hurt ripple across Anakin's face, but a second later it was gone and so was he, closing the door with a quiet, sharp snap behind him. Leaving Obi-Wan in a stinging silence. Leaving Obi-Wan to contemplate all of the separate moments that afternoon and that evening when he could and should have said 'no'.


	3. Chapter 3

He hadn't been to a fashion show in almost a decade. When he'd been younger, he'd lived and breathed them. First as a starry-eyed young model, lingering in the back, crammed between the other would-be Cindy Crawfords and Naomi Campbells, and then as a photographer with better seats and increasingly less enthusiasm.

Men's Fashion Week had always been his show of choice, for both professional and personal reasons. It was strange being back there. He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised he'd gotten an invite. His editorial of Anakin in Mod magazine had been received with glowing praise from his peers and a tide of positive attention by the right people and the right institutions. Paired with Anakin's growing and enthusiastic following on social media, the gamble had paid off in a satisfyingly big way. For both of them.

And Obi-Wan _was_ satisfied. Personal feelings aside, he had been part of a success story and that could only be good for his career. He mostly appreciated the tidal wave of work he'd received following the editorial, but a few gushing phone calls from people he hadn't heard from in years and who had written his fashion career off as a loss were also satisfying on a more childish level.

The months since had been devoted to maintaining the goodwill and recognition he had garnered. He knew only too well that fashion's approval could evaporate as quickly as it formed. He knew it was good that he was busy, because the other things that occupied his mind were not helpful or productive. That night six months ago had not left him.

Seated with a sort-of friend also from the midrange of the fashion hierarchy, he was feeling an odd mix of stinging nostalgia—and an increasing incredulity that he had ever enjoyed this. The music was loud, the seats were hard, the clashing scents of a dozen perfumes and colognes was nauseating. But the show wasn't really why he was there. As much as he had tried to convince himself his interest was purely professional.

His sort-of friend had been unhappily employed by one of the country's biggest fashion bibles when they'd last met, but now ran a, he assured him, very successful fashion blog. He had covered Anakin's rise since he'd first appeared in Mod. The pieces he wrote about him apparently skyrocketed the amount of hits his website got, so it was an easy incentive to keep writing them. Obi-Wan understood that.

Nonetheless, he'd almost sounded sheepish telling him, and Obi-Wan knew why. Anakin was more than one trashy gossip columnist's staple meal. Obi-Wan didn't seek out the articles or headlines about him, but when they appeared in front of him he couldn't stop himself from reading them. There was Anakin at a club, here was Anakin spilling out of a taxi, Anakin with his ever-growing pack of vacuous hangers-on, Anakin in the arms of his latest fling, Anakin breaking up with said fling a few days later, the third in as many weeks. It was all expected model behaviour. But something gnawed at him when he saw Anakin like that, blue eyes hazy, easy smile sloppy, a dozen hands pulling at him, touching him.

"He's coming out in a minute," his friend whispered into his ear, shaking him out of the brooding thoughts. "I heard he's modelling Grenadier."

Obi-Wan had thought he would be ready when he set eyes on him for the first time since that night. He had been steeling himself all day, trying to take comfort in the experience he had with awkward first-time meetings with other one-off lovers. But he realised, all in one cold, hard rush, that he had not been prepared. He had not been even a little bit prepared.

The deep, pulsing bass that was reverberating up from the floor and through the legs of his chair was like a harsh heartbeat in his chest. The sight of Anakin in the flesh was like a shot of adrenaline into his veins. His messy hair was slicked back, bringing sharp attention to his features: the subtle dip of his cheekbones and eyes that cut as deep as they had the first time Obi-Wan had met him. The easy half-smile that slipped onto his lips as he reached the end of the catwalk was the final punch to his gut. He looked away.

"He's got such a great look," his friend murmured to him, eyes still fixed on the catwalk. "There's something… electric about his eyes."

Obi-Wan knew he didn't mean for it to be, but it was a knife between his ribs. Yes, he had seen Anakin's eyes. And every other part of him. He was beginning to wish he never had. Success or no.

He looked back up and watched Anakin's back retreat away from them, overtaken by other models, disappearing into the background. Something twisted inside of him. He had to speak to Anakin. Break the ice, bury the hatchet, and whatever other cliché there was. If he returned some normalcy to their relationship and stopped skirting around him then he would get over whatever stupid infatuation he had formed. Surely. Hopefully. At the very least, he needed to be make the effort so that when he was inevitably asked to photograph him again he was ready. He had to be professional. As much as it would smart.

With his mind made up, after the show he picked his way through the always cacophonic backstage in search of him. After making three torturous circuits around the place, ducking racks of clothes and throngs of high-spirited models and their clusters of stylists and makeup artists, he resorted to approaching one of the models he knew also worked at the Prestige agency. He had the advantage of having also photographed him before, so was received more warmly than most strange men were when loitering about fashion shows.

"Mr. Kenobi?" the model said, surprised. He looked like he had just walked off of the catwalk, still with his makeup and hair in place.

Obi-Wan smiled briefly. "Sorry to bother you, but you haven't seen Anakin about, have you?"

The young man's eyes went distinctly cold and he took half a step back, folding his arms. "He disappeared as soon as he was done," he said, the dislike evident in every syllable. "He doesn't do more work than he has to." He shrugged one shoulder haughtily.

Obi-Wan felt a spike of dislike towards him, but was even more disappointed that he had missed him. "Thanks," he said, feeling deflated. "I suppose I'll call him."

He was about to leave when the man laid a hand quickly on his arm. "Wait. He and his groupies headed to that club everyone goes to when the show's over. Puma? Panther? Something like that. If it's important, you'll probably be able to catch him there."

Panther Club. Obi-Wan knew it well. He'd been there himself on more than one occasion. It was always a hotbed of fashion types and models. Those who worked with them and those who wanted to be them. Or sleep with them.

"Panther Club? Thanks. That's a huge help." He gave him a nod and turned to fight his way back out to the front.

****

Pulling up to the club, Obi-Wan felt another nervous twist in his stomach. The insistent thud of the music, echoing his own heightened heartbeat, and cacophony of voices from the waiting crowd was doing nothing to soothe his apprehension. He also didn't care much for clubs these days, the music they played, or the people who frequented them, and felt distinctly out of place as he joined the queue and was ushered inside by a surly-looking bouncer.

Inside, he recognised his fair share of faces and, in any other circumstance, would probably have been gratified to be offered so many drinks in such a short period of time. He had a sudden thought that he should really take advantage of his comeback more often, as he shook hands with a magazine editor whose name he couldn't remember and accepted a gin and tonic from a retired model he had worked with eight years ago.

He made slightly forced small-talk and scanned the room, taking steadying gulps of his drink. The subtle burn was a comforting sensation.

"Your photos in Mod were a sensation," the retired model said, martini clasped in both her hands. "Your talent was always exemplary, Obi-Wan. You should never have left us in the first place."

"You're too kind," Obi-Wan said, eyes flickering to a chattering group of people as they passed them. He thought he spotted a familiar dirty blond head through the crush and strained his neck slightly.

"Anakin, though," the model went on, seeming not to notice that his attention was divided, "what a revelation. Such a shame about the way he carries on in his personal life." She shook her head complacently.

Obi-Wan glanced at her and then back to the crowd. A boisterous yell drew his attention to the group that was crammed into one corner, at least eight of them, none of whom he recognised personally. Obi-Wan turned to the model and excused himself, making his way to the end of the bar that was closest to the party's booth.

As he ordered his second gin and tonic, he turned to try and get a better look at them and felt his heart leap in his chest. The crowd had parted and he caught a glimpse of Anakin slouched in one of the booths, long legs spread out. A dark-haired man was draped over him. Something hot and thick coasted through Obi-Wan's veins.

He drank his drink at the bar, watching Anakin and his group out of the corner of his eye. They were loud. Easily the loudest in the club. It didn't surprise Obi-Wan particularly. He had seen the people Anakin surrounded himself with. Would-be models and would-be actors who were selling drugs and latching onto people they could get a free ride out of in the meantime. Anakin's fling was wrapped around him as tightly as some sort of viper, but his eyes were scanning the room. Obi-Wan looked at Anakin's face. He could tell just by looking at him that he was already drunk. He wondered how quickly his friends had plied him with alcohol and convinced him to dish out the cash for their pleasures.

He gave a frustrated tsk and turned back to take a swig of his gin and tonic. Anakin was already drunk and there was no point in trying to have a conversation with him when he was surrounded by his so-called friends. Not to mention that he didn't know how Anakin would react to seeing him. Not well, was his gut instinct.

Another gin and tonic later and he was ready to give up and go home. He could hear the steadily increasing raucousness of Anakin's party behind him, but he was loath to turn around and see the mess for himself. And there was more than a small part of him that couldn't stand watching him being pawed at by a man who couldn’t keep his eyes off any model who walked past their table and kept excusing himself every few minutes to buy more alcohol.

Obi-Wan drained his glass and went to the bathroom. He was going to slink home with his tail between his legs, wrap himself up in his bed and ponder why the universe was conspiring against him. Perhaps he just wasn't meant to ever speak to Anakin again. It felt like fate was endeavouring to make it so. And perhaps it was for the best.

He sighed and pushed open the men's room door. It took him a few blank moments to realise what he was looking at. He jerked backwards, hand gripping hard on the doorhandle.

Anakin's fling was leant against the sinks, jeans tight around his knees and one hand firmly on the head of a young woman in a black dress. Both were laughing between drunken grunts and groans and Obi-Wan's stomach turned. The fling's eyes flickered up lazily onto him.

"Can I help you?" he slurred.

The woman between his legs erupted into laughter, almost collapsing against his leg. Obi-Wan forgot about his need to piss and turned on his heel. He walked back into the club just in time to see a slim, blond young man in fierce argument with a bouncer. Obi-Wan almost groaned aloud.

Anakin's face was bleary and flushed, his eyes were dilated, and his fists were curled into fists beside him. His friends were still sitting in the booth, expressions ranging from interested to openly amused. Anakin's shouting became louder and heads were turning towards them, whispers erupting behind glasses and hands.

The bouncer gripped Anakin's arm and walked him through the murmuring crowds, Anakin still spitting abuse at him and trying to twist himself out of his grip. His friends didn't move from their booth. Some of them had dissolved into laughter.

Obi-Wan was following them before he was even aware of what he was doing. He should have gone to Anakin's sorry excuse for a boyfriend and demanded he take care of him. A nineteen-year-old, who was going to be thrown inebriated out onto the street and left to fend for himself. But the very thought of the man filled him with an intense and poisonous loathing. He had done enough damage for the night.

He found Anakin sitting in the gutter outside of the club. Taxis were blaring their horns, but he didn't react. A cigarette was clasped between his trembling fingers. Obi-Wan took a breath and bent down beside him.

"Anakin, you can't stay here. You're going to get run over."

Anakin looked at him and he saw, with a jolt, that his eyes were bright and wet. "O-Obi-Wan?" he hiccupped, looking confused.

Obi-Wan shook his head and hoisted him up with a hand under each of his arms. "Let me take you home. You need to sleep this off."

Anakin looked past him to the club. "Where's…"

Obi-Wan's heart sunk. "He… He didn't want to leave. I said I'd help you out."

Anakin looked at him, suspicion in his unsteady gaze. "Tell me the truth."

Obi-Wan stood back and said nothing.

Anakin's expression became angry. He took a surging step towards him. "Obi-Wan, tell me the truth."

Obi-Wan exhaled softly. "I found him with a woman."

Anakin was silent. Obi-Wan felt a surge of self-disgust. He shouldn't have told him. It wasn't his place to tell him.

"I don't believe you." Anakin's voice was quiet. He wobbled where he was.

"Look, just let me drive you home." Obi-Wan said. "Then I'll leave you alone."

Anakin looked at him. "Can I go back to yours?"

Obi-Wan's heart skipped a beat. "Ah… Wouldn't you rather go back to your home?"

Anakin's took another step towards him and they were almost nose to nose. Obi-Wan almost buckled at the closeness. Anakin's expression was taut, almost desperate. "Please, I don't want to be alone. I won't be a bother. I'm sorry." It came out in a distraught babble.

Obi-Wan hesitated, and then finally nodded and took his arm. Anywhere was better than here.

The ride back to his apartment passed in silence. Anakin was staring out of the window, sniffling and hiccupping occasionally. He was still trembling slightly and had burned his fingers on his cigarette.

When they arrived at his apartment, Obi-Wan carefully helped him out of the back of the cab and led him up the stairs, feeling like he was leading a child or an elderly person. Anakin stumbled on almost every step and was unsteady on his feet, and it was relief to get him inside and close the door behind them.

Anakin immediately collapsed onto the sofa. He curled up against the cushions, staring blankly at Obi-Wan. He was a completely different person when he was drunk. But Obi-Wan didn't think his state of mind could completely be attributed to booze.

"I'm just going to get you some water, alright?" he said to him. "You'll get dehydrated otherwise."

He left him and went into the kitchen. He felt wired and on edge. It was a bad idea to bring him here again. But he couldn't turn him away. Not after the night he had had. His excuse sounded hollow even in his own head.

He sighed and filled a glass with water. When he returned to the living room, he almost dropped it in shock. Anakin was sitting straight-backed on the sofa, tears streaming down his face. Obi-Wan hurried to push the glass onto the coffee table and knelt down in front of him, all other emotions forgotten in his concern.

"Anakin?" he said, staring up into his face. "Anakin, what's wrong?"

He looked at him, expression cut through with pain. "It's not the first time." The words came out in little more than a choke. "Not the first time he—"

He hiccupped, pushing a hand to his mouth. The tears leaked out of his blue eyes thickly.

Obi-Wan ached to touch him, but he didn't. He wouldn't. Not like this. Not when Anakin wasn't in his right mind.

"It's alright, Anakin," he said quietly, though he felt as though nothing had been alright that entire evening.

Anakin looked at him. He moved closer, hands curling into Obi-Wan's shirt. "Obi-Wan." His voice was soft, almost pleading. Obi-Wan watched him lean towards him, lips parted and damp from his tears.

The taste of Anakin's lips was salty, with an undercurrent of something sweet and tangy he'd been drinking at the club. Obi-Wan felt one of his hands grip at his hair, grip clumsy in his drunken state. He closed his eyes for half a second, every ounce of his willpower wanting to melt into Anakin's kiss.

Instead, he pulled himself away, standing up. He felt almost bereft at the loss.

"Drink the water, Anakin," he said, not looking at him. "You'll get a headache if you don't." He paused. Anakin didn't speak, but he could see him watching him out of the corner of his eye. "I'll get you some blankets."

****

When Obi-Wan awoke, it took him a few moments to remember what had happened the night before. He lay in bed digesting it for a few moments more, staring at the first creeping patterns of sunlight drifting across his ceiling. There was a sound from outside his bedroom door and he got up, pulling a jumper over his faded sweatpants.

He found Anakin folding up the blankets he'd given him the night before. He looked incredibly ashen faced and his eyes were red and bleary from his crying and the alcohol. His hair was a not-unpleasant mess. He looked up when Obi-Wan entered. He lowered his eyes in a way that he could only think looked ashamed.

"I'm sorry," he said, after neither of them spoke for a beat. "I shouldn't have done this to you."

Obi-Wan wondered if he was just talking about the night before. "It's fine, Anakin." He was surprised at how normal his voice came out. Almost cold.

"I should give you some money for your trouble—"

"Don't be stupid," Obi-Wan said sharply. He took a breath and softened his voice. "Really. It was no trouble. Don't worry about it."

Anakin met his eye. He looked incredibly unhappy. "I have to go. I'm meeting someone."

Obi-Wan nodded silently and followed him to the door. He opened it and stood back, waiting for him to leave. Anakin stood opposite him, not looking at him and not moving. Obi-Wan studied his face. A shallow crease ran down his cheek from where the pillow had pressed into his skin.

"I do appreciate what you did for me," he said, staring at the floor between them.

Obi-Wan said nothing. He didn't trust himself to speak. He was trying to keep up the veil of his indifference, and Anakin's frail voice was threatening to shred it. Part of him was angry. Angry at Anakin for getting so drunk, angry at himself for getting involved, angry at the both of them for getting into this situation.

Anakin moved to leave. In the doorway he turned back to him. "Please don't hate me, Obi-Wan."

And then he was gone. Obi-Wan shut the door behind him. He cleared away the blankets and pillows Anakin had used. He took them to the laundry, bundled up in his arms. On them he could smell cologne, hair product—and the scent of Anakin's skin.

A few days later, a parcel arrived in the mail. When Obi-Wan opened it, he sat on the sofa for several minutes in silence, looking at the contents.

He pinned the photography exhibition ticket to his fridge with a magnet from a Chinese restaurant and looked slowly over the photograph that had come with it. It was one of the earliest shots by his personal photography idol, a late and great whose older works were known to be jealously guarded by their private collection owners. It would have cost a substantial amount of money for one of them to even consider selling.

Also in the parcel was a scrap of paper, with the increasingly recurrent words in his life: _Thank you_ and _sorry_ in a scrawling script.

Underneath, there was a name: Anakin Skywalker.


	4. Chapter 4

Obi-Wan's phone erupted into vibrations beside him on the desk. He distractedly reached for it, glancing sideways from his computer screen. The words: "Tommy- DON’T PICK UP" appeared on the screen. He dropped it again with a sigh, slumping back in his office chair. It was the third call he'd had from him in the last couple of days, along with at least eight texts. All had gone unanswered and, increasingly, unread.

"Take a hint, Tommy," he muttered, scanning through his emails with an increasing sense of fatigue.

He had been neglecting his inbox for some days and was now paying the price. Emails from editors and agents had piled up, along with reminders and appointments from his PA, and invitations to charity balls and gallery openings that usually went straight into the trash unopened. He was craving a cigarette, was certain it would make the job ahead less painful, but settled, with difficulty, for another piece of the hated gum. He chewed it with dissatisfaction, as he continued aimlessly scrolling through the emails.

His phone began to buzz again and he let out a frustrated breath, snatching it up to look at the screen. A wave of relief went through him and he accepted the call.

"Thank God it's you." He pinned the phone between his ear and shoulder. "I thought it was Tommy again."

"That guy is  _still_  calling you?" his PA said incredulously. "Christ, you bang a guy once..."

Obi-Wan grunted offhandedly. He let his hand slip off of the mouse. The call was a good excuse to procrastinate.

"You want me to talk to him?" his PA went on.

Obi-Wan sat back in his seat with another sigh. "No. He'll get the message eventually. They always do."

His PA clucked her tongue down the phone. "Are you sure your standards aren't just too high? Some of those guys were pretty hot."

Obi-Wan didn't reply. He hadn't shared the real reason for his seeming inability to find anyone he wanted to date. Months. It had been months since he'd last seen him. And he was still drifting from partner to partner like someone bereft. It was pathetic. But a difficult habit to break.

"Anyway. Masque magazine called me. The shoot's been moved to ten."

Obi-Wan was glad for his PA's businesslike tone. It stopped him from sinking into one of the many reveries he seemed prone to these days.

He sunk down in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. "Great." He was aware he sounded less than exuberant.

His PA evidently picked up on his tone. "You know, if you're sick of all this, you can go back to—"

"Oh for God's sake. I wish you'd stop with that," Obi-Wan said irritably, sitting up. "I'm don't regret going back into fashion. It's just been a tiring week."

His PA snorted. "A tiring year, more like. Since you launched that Starwalker kid's career, it's been a nonstop shitshow."

"Skywalker," Obi-Wan mumbled.

It had been a chaotic few months. In more ways than one. He'd stopped reading the news a few weeks ago. Started to actively avoid the gossip columns and articles. It was becoming bad again. And he felt so useless and detached just sitting there, with no way of even calling him. Forced to be some sort of spectator--or voyeur to his woes. Anakin hadn't given him his phone number, and Obi-Wan wouldn't stoop to using his connections to get it, so he was forced to wait for the sporadic, one-sided correspondence between them.

It always came in the form of an envelope containing a ticket to a local photography exhibition and another rare snapshot from his favourite photographer. Along with the now-familiar scrap of paper bearing Anakin's name in his childish scrawl. Each one he smoothed out and put in a side table drawer. He didn't really know why he kept them. Perhaps because the thought of throwing them away twisted something inside of him, like a broken limb. It was childish. But he had given up on trying to police his sentimentality when it came to Anakin.

He deduced that the only way Anakin could have discovered his particular fondness for the photographer whose works he now regularly sent him was if he had read it on his website. That had filled him with an odd feeling. It was almost intimate imagining Anakin going through his website, disregarding the professional information and combing through for something personal, something close. He wondered if he had looked at the picture of him on there, that dreadful headshot of him that he thought was pretentious and overexposed. He had almost considered changing it, before abruptly realising the ridiculous vanity involved in such a thing. It wasn't a dating website; it was his professional webpage, designed to attract clients. His face was not what they were there to see.

On his birthday, he'd received an extremely expensive zoom lens. It came with a card that simply said "Happy Birthday". No name. The lens itself hadn't been something he had really needed, and it wasn't his preferred brand, but the obvious earnestness behind the gesture had been difficult to take. Those were the moments when he desperately wanted. Wanted so badly that he couldn't sit still or think straight, work, eat, sleep or concentrate. He felt the want in his veins and in his blood like a poison. And he was denied the antidote.

He didn't understand Anakin. He had never understood Anakin. Maybe he never would.

"Um, earth to Obi-Wan?"

He jerked in his seat at the sound of his PA's slightly irritable voice. "Ah... sorry. I have this mountain of emails to get through—"

She tsked at him again. "Really, Kenobi. You know you can ask me to handle that stuff."

"Really?" Kenobi felt an unmistakable wave of relief. "You'd be happy to do that?"

"I'm not exactly doing it out of the kindness of my heart," she said, and he could almost hear her grin. "You do pay me, remember? But, yeah. Send me your password. I'll have it empty within a couple of hours."

"Please try to be tactful with your responses," Obi-Wan said drily. "It's my name on those emails. I'm the one who has to eventually explain any odd turns of phrase."

"Yeah, sure. Whatever." His PA sounded distracted. "Gotta go anyway. Probably don't bother being on-time tomorrow. You know what models are like."

"That's not exactly professional—"

"Bye!"

She hung up and the dial-tone sounded in his ear. He sighed, hanging up and dropping it on the desk. Not having to deal with his inbox was certainly a weight off his chest, but the nagging worry in the back of his mind hadn't lessened. Hadn't lessened for some time now. And it was all self-inflicted of course.

Anakin didn't ask him to fret over his well-being. He certainly didn't ask him to read every trashy news article there was about him passing out at another club, or burning more bridges in the industry because he kept turning up to shoots three hours later, if at all, or breaking up with another lover who'd left him with a black eye and more credit card debt.

But, at the same time, he had helped nurture the ongoing bond between them. More than part of Obi-Wan wished he could just rip up the notes and the photographs, return the camera lens and make it clear that he was done. Done with the teasing, done with this tenuous, torturous link between them. But he couldn't. And he knew he couldn't. He wondered if Anakin knew it too.

Obi-Wan leant forward and pressed his forehead into his hands. He wished, and not for the first time, that he had some way of contacting Anakin. Or that he was somehow able to send some tendril of his mind out to just know that he was okay and wrap around the part of him that always seemed so frail and breakable.

****

 Despite his PA's pessimism, the model was on-time. Obi-Wan himself had arrived early to set up and ensure he could fix any catastrophes that might occur.

He had known that it would be in the same studio he had shot Anakin in, though he hadn't allowed himself to think about it too deeply. It was the first time he had been back there since they'd met. And he couldn't shake off the feeling that it was somehow haunted for him now.

The model was about the same age as Anakin, perhaps a little younger. And he was the picture of masculine beauty. An august figure of elegant, toned muscle, a face that looked like it had been carved from marble and arranged by hand. And yet Obi-Wan had frowned through his lens, not able to shake the sensation that the photos were somewhat hollow.

This model was certainly more skilled than Anakin. He moved with poise and practice, if not in a way that was particularly interesting or innovative, but Obi-Wan felt himself searching for something in those beautiful features that just wasn't there. He felt like he was chasing some elusive animal through the woods, almost catching it, but just missing it by an inch. It was infuriating.

If the others noticed his increasing frustration, they didn't mention it. At least to his face. They probably thought that perhaps he was losing his touch, that his genius had gone as quickly as it had come. Let them think that, he thought bitterly to himself, as he put away his camera, back turned to the imagined whispers of his colleagues. It was less damning than the truth anyway.

Even his PA was looking at him strangely as he escaped from the studio in record time, and burst out onto the steps, the same steps he and Anakin had stood on. He took a deep breath, closing his eyes, wanting to purge himself of whatever had come over him. He blindly felt for where he cigarettes should be and found only the hated gum. He let his hand drop by his side with a frustrated sigh.

"Obi-Wan?"

He turned and found himself almost nose to nose with the beautiful-faced model he had just been shooting.

It seemed to take a moment for Obi-Wan's brain to engage, before he managed to form a clumsy reply. "Ah, can I help you?"

The model laughed, cocking his head slightly to the side. "I was just wondering if you wanted to get a drink. Unless you have other plans?"

His bright, expectant eyes and smile were almost discombobulating. Obi-Wan's brain seemed to have slowed down to half his usual speed. He dealt with models all of the time, but few of this calibre of beauty. And he was not in his best state of mind at that moment.

He gave himself a small shake and forced a smile. "Of course. I just… Sorry. I had other things on my mind." He laughed shortly and unconvincingly. "But yes, that would be nice."

The model smiled even more brightly. "Great. I know this place nearby."

They ended up not, thankfully, at the same place he and Anakin had sat in over a year ago, but in a small, pokey bar a street away. Obi-Wan didn't feel much like drinking, in fact he was beginning to regret agreeing to come at all. He realised he was not in the right frame of mind to entertain an exuberant young model. But, on the plus side, the model seemed more than happy to do all of the talking.

Obi-Wan sipped his vodka and coke without much enjoyment and listened while the young man rattled off the famous people he had met, the designers he had worn, and the magazines he had been editorialized in. He was struck by how much younger he seemed than Anakin, despite the fact there couldn't have been more than a year between them. Perhaps he was becoming judgemental in his old age, but his vacuousness took the edge right off of his looks. Made him almost downright pedestrian.

"And what about you?" The boy finally came up for air, fluttering his eyelashes at him over his cocktail, bought by Obi-Wan of course. "Have you been in photography long?"

Obi-Wan's reputation didn't matter to him beyond the fact that it paid for his rent, and his body of work was not something he expected everyone in fashion to commit to memory, but the earnestness in the boy's question was such that Obi-Wan almost laughed. He took a mouthful of his drink to steady himself and had to look away to try and tame his features from curling into a smirk.

"You could say that," he said, managing to make eye-contact, when he was certain he had tamed the temptation to snigger.

The model cocked his head again. "I saw your photos of Anakin Skywalker."

The amusement leaked right out of Obi-Wan in one dismal swoop and he felt immediately chastened, as though he had been swiftly punished for taking spiteful amusement in someone else's ignorance.

He sighed inwardly. "Did you?"

"I absolutely loved them." The model's tone was earnest. "I was a big fan of Anakin's." He drained his drink and put it down in a matter-of-fact way.

Obi-Wan knew he should know better, knew that providence was just hanging the bait in front of him, goading him to take it, knowing that he knew it was a trap. But Obi-Wan was a sucker for punishment.

"But you're not anymore?"

The model pulled a slight face. "Everyone knows he does nothing but sleep around and get drunk. He barely turns up for work. He just falls out of clubs." His expression became slightly bitter. "It's not like he didn't have enough chances. I guess some people are just like that." He shrugged.

Obi-Wan knew that he was only saying what a lot of people were saying, knew that from the outside it did look like Anakin was just another spoiled brat pissing their life away. But the anger flared nonetheless. He tried to push it away. He wasn't Anakin's attack dog.

"I think this latest fuck up will be the last chance he'll get though," the model went on. "I've heard his agency is even thinking about ditching him if he doesn't get his shit sorted—"

Obi-Wan jerked out of his thoughts and stared at him. "What fuck up?"

The model looked incredulous. "You don't know? It's been all over Twitter." He reached for his pocket and pulled out his phone. He tapped it a few times, and then held it up to Obi-Wan.

The video didn't have any sound, and Obi-Wan was soon thankful that it didn't. Anakin was unsteady on his feet. The video kept breaking up and pixelating, adding to the already chaotic scene, but it was obvious he was having difficulty keeping his balance. With a sinking heart, Obi-Wan watched as the first punch was thrown. By Anakin. His victim reeled back. There was a moment of confusion where a dozen hands and bodies shifted around the video in a panic. And then Obi-Wan saw the man straighten up from the table he'd fallen against, hand forming a retaliatory fist.

Obi-Wan winced away as the man slammed it into Anakin's face. He threw out a hand and hit the pause button, his heart hammering in his chest. He stared at the pixelated frozen video, an odd numbness going through him.

The model put his phone away. He seemed unmoved by the scene, though he had probably watched it more than once. "Anyway. Did you want another drink?"

Obi-Wan looked blankly at him, taking a moment to comprehend that he had spoken. "I need to get home." He realised he sounded abrupt.

He moved to get up, and felt a warm hand on his arm. The model looked up at him dolefully, with those bright eyes and extremely symmetrical features. "You want some company?"

Obi-Wan frowned slightly and pulled himself carefully out of his grip. "I'm not feeling well. Thanks for the drink."

He got up and made his way numbly to the exit, realising belatedly that he had just turned down sex and not even slightly able to give a damn.

****

Obi-Wan slept badly for almost a week afterwards. He had finally accepted a call from Tommy and had gently let him down with a sudden, newfound sense of empathy. He hadn't been pleased, but Obi-Wan felt cleaner somehow when he had hung up.

No more, he had told himself, as he turned over again in bed, staring at the wall. No more half-hearted attempts at romantic normalcy. It wasn't fair on them. If he couldn't commit himself to someone who wasn't Anakin then he wouldn't. It wasn't their fault that he had fallen so intensely in love with someone utterly unobtainable.

He closed his eyes, trying to force sleep violently on himself. It was the only way he could get any sleep at all these days.

Minutes later, still severely awake, his eyes opened again at the unmistakeable sound of someone knocking at the door. He sat up slowly in bed, covers tumbling down his torso, exposing his skin to the sting of the night air. There were another three knocks. Louder. More insistent. He got out of bed, pulling on his jumper as he went for the door.

At the front door he stopped, conscious of how his heart was hammering. The way it was causing his skin to almost vibrate over his chest. Breathing in silently, he closed a hand over the doorhandle and opened it.

It wasn't how it was supposed to go, how it was in romance novels and television dramas. Anakin looked at him, eyes blank, hair tumbling into his face. The blue-purple of his black eye was a beacon against the sudden paleness of his face.

"Jesus, Anakin," Obi-Wan said.

It was all he could say. All he could think to say. Anakin didn't need him to rage and gnash his teeth over it. He would have had enough people doing that.

Anakin looked away. His eyes were on the floor when he mumbled, "can I come in?"

Obi-Wan stood back, holding the door open for him. Anakin walked past him, casting a look around the apartment. Obi-Wan closed the door and turned to look at him. He watched him scan the room, eyes roaming over his belongings on the sofa, coffee table, side table, TV stand.

He knew what he was looking for. He was looking for some sign of habitation other than Obi-Wan. A man's shirt or a pair of shoes. When he finally turned to look at him, his face still held that same odd, blank look that was nothing like the Anakin Obi-Wan had photographed, had made love to, or taken home drunk. His quietness was almost eerie.

"Do you want coffee?" he asked.

Anakin shook his head and sat down. "I'm sorry I came over so late."

Obi-Wan sat next to him on the sofa, a few carefully selected inches between them, facing him and regulating his emotions with all of the painfully won self-control he had accrued over the years.

"Anakin, it's fine. You know it's fine."

Anakin looked at him and suddenly all of the blankness was gone from his face. The emotion came in a rush. He doubled over, holding on to his knees. The ridge of his back trembled. Obi-Wan's self-control broke and he moved closer to him, laying a hand on his back.

"Anakin," he said softly. "It's alright. It's fine."

Something like a dry sob escaped him and he turned to pin his face into Obi-Wan's stomach. He felt the dampness from his eyes and mouth sink through to his skin and gently laid his hands on Anakin's shoulders.

They stayed like that for a long time. The seconds and minutes lost meaning to Obi-Wan. He stroked Anakin's hair and back, feeling his breaths even and his shuddering stop. Anakin clung onto him, at the same time childlike and so much older than he had been.

He sat upright, gently taking himself from Obi-Wan's arms and touches. He rubbed his face with his hands. Obi-Wan watched the scar on his cheek.

"I have to go to rehab," he said finally, face now blotchy and red. "They say it's the only way I'll be able to save my career."

Obi-Wan said nothing. It made sense. Models went into rehab or cleaned up their images and continued having fruitful careers. And maybe Anakin did need that level of help. But a selfish part of him didn't want to have to watch him leave for a third time.

Anakin looked at him, eyes bloodshot from crying. "I don't know how long it'll be."

"Anakin, we haven't spoken face to face in months," Obi-Wan replied gently. "If I'd heard from you, even if it was just an email—"

"You'd what?" Anakin's mouth twisted into a bitter smile. "Fix me?"

Obi-Wan fell silent. He could feel Anakin watching him. His gaze was like a surgical knife cutting through his skin. He could feel the need there. And the fear. It was the first time he had realised it, but Anakin was so scared that Obi-Wan would turn him away. Every time he stumbled back into his life, he expected him to cut all ties and turn him out. Like he had been turned out before.

"How did you get your scar?" Obi-Wan didn't know what had possessed him to ask it, but he needed something to fill the silence with.

Anakin didn't look surprised. Perhaps he was too tired to be surprised. His eyes trailed down to his lap. "One of my mother's boyfriends. I was fifteen. He was drunk." He laughed humourlessly. "She was so angry. Thought it was going to ruin my modelling career. But they liked it, in the end. Said it gave me an edge."

Obi-Wan looked away. He didn't know what to say, or if there really was anything to say. He wanted to rage against and loathe a man who was probably long dead of alcohol poisoning or an overdose, but it felt useless.

The sensation of warm fingers on his jaw sent a light shiver through him. He looked up and accepted Anakin's lips on his. One of Anakin's hands held insistently onto his clothes while the other drifted from his jaw to his hair, carding it through it with his fingers. Obi-Wan touched Anakin's waist. He was momentarily immobilized by how slender it had become.

Anakin let out a soft sound, breaking away from the kiss. He straddled Obi-Wan's lap, looking down at him with an expression of a soft, imploring lust. Obi-Wan rolled his hips up into him, slowly, leisurely, letting Anakin feel him, feel that intimate part of him.

Anakin gasped, almost panted. "Obi-Wan… Please." His eyes were urging, pleading. He was almost begging him not to turn him away.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes, the last seams of his better judgement buckling. He opened them again. "Bedroom," he rasped.

Anakin nodded and stumbled backwards out of his lap. Obi-Wan pushed himself up from the sofa with slightly shaking arms and led him wordlessly to his bedroom.

He switched on the light. The covers on his side of the bed were still thrown back. He hastily smoothed them down and tore off his jumper, throwing it aside. Anakin yanked off his shoes and crawled onto the bed, eyes fixed on his.

Obi-Wan knelt down in front of him, kissing him again, their hands meeting each other as they tore off Anakin's shirt in unison and immediately went for the buttons on his jeans. Anakin impatiently kicked them off, between insistent, feverish kisses to Obi-Wan's mouth and jaw.

Obi-Wan had to stop when he saw Anakin's body. The ridges of his ribs and hips were jutting out more distinctly than when he had last seen him undressed. There was a sprinkling of small, dark purple bruises over his stomach and thighs. One of his nipples now bore a silver piercing.

Anakin looked down, clearly self-conscious. He had lost some of his Adonis status since they had last made love, but Obi-Wan didn't think he had ever found him more beautiful, more wantable.

He took Anakin's jaw in his hands and kissed him again. Anakin leant into his mouth. His hands drifted down Obi-Wan's back, touching the band on his sweatpants in a wordless request. Obi-Wan broke away to tear them off.

Anakin laid down against the pillows, stretching out his legs and letting them fall open. Obi-Wan looked down the firm plane of Anakin's stomach to the insistent bulge underneath his underwear, now adorned by a small damp patch. He leant over him, looking down at him as he hooked his fingers into the band and pulled them down.

Anakin hissed as his cock was released. He immediately, instinctively went to touch himself. Obi-Wan took his wrist, stopping him. The needy crease that ran down between his brows sent a pulse through Obi-Wan's own erection.

Anakin dropped his hand back down, silently watching as Obi-Wan got off the bed and went to the bedside table. His life had changed in some ways since they'd last done this. He opened the top drawer and took out a half-empty bottle of lubricant. Inside was a collection of condoms and other oils and lotions.

He could feel Anakin's eyes on him, could sense his unspoken questions. He looked up at him, raising his eyebrows. "Yes?"

Anakin looked away, almost sullen. "Nothing."

"Did you think I was just sitting here alone pining for you night after night?" Obi-Wan said, the barb in his voice obvious.

Anakin fixed him with a look. "Are you going to fuck me or what?"

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes and snapped open the bottle, squeezing a liberal amount between his fingers. Anakin spread his legs wider in anticipation, holding his thighs, stretching open his hole for him. Obi-Wan pushed his fingers inside, slowly and carefully. Anakin's sharp intake of breath was the only sound in the room.

Anakin urged his legs wider, rocking his hips forward, trying to fuck Obi-Wan's fingers, urging him to find his sweet spot. Obi-Wan pulled out. Anakin was panting. His cock was fiercely red and dribbling pre-come in an almost steady stream. He looked at Obi-Wan, eyes expressing all of the desperation he wouldn't verbalise.

Obi-Wan pulled down his own underwear, taking his time, listening to the little gasps and gulps Anakin was making. By the time he pushed his cock against him, Anakin's fingers were twisting and worrying the covers, chest heaving with the effort of trying not to cry out.

Obi-Wan pulled his legs around him and pushed in, a strangled sound of his own leaving him.

"Obi-Wan!" Anakin burst out in a rush. He threw his head back. "Oh, God. Please."

Obi-Wan hunched over, adjusting, trying to catch his breath. Anakin, whose eyes had been screwed up as he'd pushed inside of him, opened and he looked up at him. He could still see the tear tracks on his face. He reached a hand down and gently touched the scar that marred his august features.

"God, I love you." The words sounded like they came from somewhere other. Not from Obi-Wan. Not in his breathless, sex-addled voice.

He didn't wait to see the look on Anakin's face. He made love to him. Anakin urged him to go faster, to fuck him harder, at one point he begged him to, but Obi-Wan ignored him. By the end, Anakin was almost sobbing. One arm was thrown over his face; his eyes were streaming.

"Obi-Wan, please," he choked. "Please God."

Obi-Wan's body tautened. He hunched over with a choked groan. Anakin's body arched underneath him. He threw his head back, eyes closed, brow deeply creased.

" _Anakin_." The name came out in a harsh moan as he came, hips jerking in time with his release inside of Anakin.

He wrapped his hand around Anakin's cock, still rocking inside of him. A few sloppy tugs were it all it took to have him orgasming, spurting his seed across his own stomach with an anguished cry.

"Obi-Wan," he croaked.

Obi-Wan collapsed on top of him. Anakin stretched his legs out flat, hands resting on Obi-Wan's sweat-dampened back. Obi-Wan's face was buried into Anakin's neck. He breathed in the scent of him, could almost have gotten drunk on that smell. He felt tears spring into his eyes and forced them away. Not for the first time.

Afterwards, with Anakin against his chest, both of them too tired to care about the mess they had made, he slept. He slept better than he had in days. Perhaps weeks. Perhaps months. Perhaps a year. And he didn't wake until morning.

****

Anakin wouldn't look at him. Standing at the door of Obi-Wan's apartment, the open doorway like a yawning chasm between them, they stood silently opposite each other. Anakin was pale-faced, his hair was a mess and the scar looked extremely red in the harsh morning light. The purple of his blackened eye was a jarring contrast.

"The rehab is a few hours away." Anakin's thin voice barely broke the silence. "I'll call you when I get out."

"Anakin," Obi-Wan said quietly.

Anakin slowly looked up at him, meeting his eye with difficulty. His eyes were red again. Obi-Wan had heard him crying in the bathroom that morning.

"Why did you send me all of those things in the mail?" It seemed like a strange time to ask it, but he didn't know when next he'd have the chance to.

Anakin lowered his eyes again. "It was the best I could do." He hesitated. "When I joined the agency, they…" He swallowed. "They didn't think it was a good idea if I tied myself down. You know… romantically."

Obi-Wan felt like he had been hit across the face. For a moment, he reeled in silence. Processing all of the layers of deceit to Anakin's statement. Not just by him. But by them. To the both of them.

Anakin's voice was barely there when he spoke. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't argue with them. They said it was about my career."

The silence between them was thick and stinging. Anakin looked at him, seeming terribly small and frail and breakable. And utterly alone.

"So you felt guilty," Obi-Wan said at length.

A flare of anger went through Anakin's eyes. "You don't know what it's like! You never had to deal with what I have to!"

Obi-Wan scoffed in his face. "Oh, please. I've dealt with it. I dealt with it when I was younger than you, and I knew when to say no—"

"And they dumped you." The sting to Anakin's voice could have drawn blood.

Obi-Wan reeled back, too caught by surprise to feel the hurt he knew he would soon. Anakin swallowed. The anger palpably drained out of him.

He looked down. "I'm in love with you." His voice was blank. "But there's nothing I can do about it."

He walked out of Obi-Wan's door without looking back. Obi-Wan stayed where he was, staring at the place he had been and letting the tears finally come.


End file.
